


Fever

by WatsonsStressBall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 04:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatsonsStressBall/pseuds/WatsonsStressBall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has fallen ill and is burning with fever...and in his delirium, he and John become creatures of a different world.</p><p>With apologies to Professor Tolkien and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own The Hobbit or BBC's Sherlock -- I am merely attempting to pay homage to two of my favorite fandoms. This was an idea that came into my head when I saw <a href="http://letsrevitup.tumblr.com/post/39259981074/edit-not-my-gifs-just-my-idea">this post</a> on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fever

It had been another exhausting and exhilarating case: the theft of an ancient Roman bronze plate from a museum, no witnesses, nothing on surveillance cameras and no alarms activated. Two and a half days, a foot chase through a crowded shopping plaza, and a short gun battle later, the piece was recovered, albeit a bit more damaged than it was when it was stolen. How was John to know that the man shooting at them was wearing the plate beneath his shirt? And too bad for the culprit that a thin sheet of two-thousand-year-old bronze was no match for modern ammunition.

Still, Sherlock had solved the case, and the plate was back with the museum's curators, with no thanks from them over the fresh bullet hole in their priceless artifact.

After some much-needed Thai takeaway, they collapsed onto their sofa. John turned on the telly, but Sherlock, without meaning to, drifted off.

*****

Someone was encroaching on his domain...a small figure, but fierce in his courage and girt with a bitter sword...

Someone who had come to steal away his precious treasure.

*****

He tried to rise off the sofa, but an unintended groan escaped him at the ache in his joints.

"Sh'lock?" John muzzily inquired. He must have dozed off as well. In the background, the telly blared meaninglessly.

"'m fine, just stiff," Sherlock managed. His throat felt suddenly raw, and he shivered. Why had he fallen asleep on this lumpy old sofa in the cold sitting room? He'd feel far better in his comfortable bed. He rose and swayed as the room tilted around him, his arms automatically wheeling in an attempt to balance.

A hand was at his back to stabilize him. "Steady on!" exclaimed John. "You all right?"

Sherlock shivered again. Why had he removed his coat and suit jacket? The air was so cold through his thin shirt.

The telly clicked off. Strong hands gripped his shoulders and turned him carefully. He felt a cool hand on his forehead as John looked up into his face.

"You're burning up," said John. "Were you feeling ill before?"

Ill. Yes, he was feeling ill. "No," muttered Sherlock, "not until just now." His throat burned, and he swallowed uncomfortably.

John regarded him for a moment, then gave a single nod. "Right then," he declared, "off to bed. Can I get you anything? Tea?"

He was so cold, and his throat felt so raw. "Tea," he croaked.

John watched as Sherlock wobbled off to his bedroom, then shook his head and strode to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

*****

Someone was there, someone small. He was enraged by the trespass and by the theft of the two-handled cup from his hoard -- how dare they! -- but his stomach was full just now, and he considered that he should gather more intelligence before formulating his plans for revenge.

He could hear the breathing, soft and quick, but he could not place the intruder's smell, strangely familiar though it seemed. Dwarf? Not really, though perhaps this individual had some association with them and anyway, even after all this time, his caverns still reeked of Dwarf, so it was hard to trust his senses there. But no, there was something different about this one...something he had not yet encountered.

Yes, it was better to be cautious.

He could hear the figure creeping closer. Perhaps it was time to put some fear into this bold interloper.

He opened one eye.

*****

There was a mug of cold tea at his bedside, and a bottle of paracetamol. He grimaced as he drank down the cold tea, but ignored the medicine. Far from cold himself, he was burning up now, and he restlessly kicked off the bedclothes and tore off his socks. Too much! A chill overtook him, and he wrapped himself in the irritatingly hot blankets. He couldn't get comfortable.

*****

There before him stood the intruder...unseen, but not all undetected. Had he not the experience of centuries by which to identify would-be thieves and dragonslayers?

And yet, in all his experience, he still could not place the smell of this small interloper.

It was a puzzle...and the dragon could never resist a puzzle.

He spoke.

"Well, thief! I smell you and I feel your air. I hear your breath. Come along! Help yourself again, there is plenty and to spare!"

And finally, he got a response.

"No thank you, O Smaug the Tremendous!" said the little creature. "I did not come for presents. I only wished to have a look at you and see if you were truly as great as tales say. I did not believe them."

It was unexpected. In all his years, rarely had anyone extolled his obvious greatness. Despite himself, he was flattered...and a little bit intrigued.

Who was this creature, who strolled so boldly into his lair and spoke so agreeably? And yet...the voice...did he know the voice?

"You seem familiar with my name," he returned, "but I don't seem to remember smelling you before. Who are you and where do you come from, may I ask?"

"You may indeed!" said the creature. "I come from under the hill, and under the hills and over the hills my paths led. And through the air, I am he that walks unseen. I am the clue-finder, the web-cutter, the stinging fly. I was chosen for the lucky number. I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. I came from the end of a bag, but no bag went over me. I am the friend of bears and the guest of eagles. I am Ringwinner and Luckwearer; and I am Barrel-rider."

A promising start; but as the small intruder continued, he realized what was the most likely truth: this was merely one of the pesky Lake-men, probably the representative of a gang who intended to slay him and take the dragon's treasure for their own. Or...more likely...someone in league with the Dwarves, to steal the treasure and bit by bit, move it only as far as the nearby town, as the plunder would be far too vast to transport any real distance. Either way, he was dealing with individuals who were poor at planning and, apparently, at execution as well. Tedious.

"I don't know if it has occurred to you that, even if you could steal the gold bit by bit -- a matter of a hundred years or so -- you could not get it very far?"

An intake of breath in the darkness.

"Had you never thought of the catch?"

A long moment of silence. Yes, clearly someone had not thought this plan through to its inevitable conclusion.

Now to show this imbecilic creature exactly what he was dealing with.

*****

The room was dimly lit, and his hands were full of wool. It felt like he was gripping a jumper. Someone was wrestling with him. Oh. It was John. He stopped, confused. Why was he wrestling with John? And why wasn't he wearing a shirt? Surely he had been wearing his shirt when he went to bed? He tried to think.

"John?" he ventured. His voice rasped in his aching throat.

Carefully, John released him and stepped back, eyeing him warily. "You know my name?"

"Of course." What was going on?

John cleared his throat. "A moment ago, you were shouting 'Thief!' and 'Imbecilic interloper!' and, um, 'Barrel-rider!' at me, though what that last means, I have no idea. Then you ripped off your shirt and tried to show me your 'magnificent armor' before lunging at me and apparently trying to take my head off. Your fever is up. Did you take any of the paracetamol I left out for you?"

Sherlock stared at him, then shook his head.

John looked down, grimacing, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock sat heavily on the bed, reached for the bottle, opened it, and took out two pills. He winced as he swallowed them dry.

John sighed. "Thank you. Now, get back in bed, and I'll get you some more tea. All right?"

Obediently, Sherlock lay down, and pulled up the covers. "Yes, John."

*****

The paracetamol did help for a time, but the morning found him no better. Sherlock dozed on and off throughout the day, rising only for tea and to use the bathroom. He didn't even feel well enough to pester John with endless requests for a phone, a pen, a book, John's laptop, John's pistol, or any of the million other things he usually requested when he was bored.

John had never seen Sherlock so...apathetic. He was worried, but being a doctor, he knew these things would usually run their course in a couple of days, so long as Sherlock kept his fever down and got plenty of rest and fluids. At least the day had passed without a recurrence of Sherlock's delirium. As the sun went down, he dared to hope that the worst was past and that the morning would bring a Sherlock who was on the mend.

*****

The moon was rising as he came roaring down onto the town, the fire burning inside of him. He reveled in the freedom of flight and the heat of the flame inside him, and he laughed in exhilaration to see people and animals fleeing in terror before him. Too long had he hidden away in that cavern. He hadn't even realized how much he missed the thrill of the chase.

He let loose a blast of fire and saw the rooftops set ablaze before him. He wanted to shout with joy. Fire! Fire! Everything was fire and heat and vengeance, on these miserable idiots who dared to take what was his!

There was a terrible pain in his breast, and he fell, raging. The surface of the lake rushed up to meet him; his flame sputtered and died as the cold waters closed over him.

*****

He sputtered, spitting water, reaching out blindly to find cool tile beneath his fingers. The bathtub.

John and...Lestrade?...holding him down as he struggled in the tepid water.

"What?" he gasped, flailing, "HOW?!..."

"Hold still, you great idiot!" cried John. "You're burning up!" The front of his jumper was soaked, as was Lestrade's shirt.

Sherlock subsided. "John...? Lestrade...?"

John snorted. "About time. Welcome back. Yes, Greg came by tonight to follow up on a few details from that last case."

"Mrs. Hudson let me in," added Lestrade, "and a good thing too, since John had his hands full, trying to cool down your delirious arse. I had to help him drag you in here. You were kicking and screaming the whole time, something about treasure and fire and treacherous Dwarves and I don't know what other nonsense. I just wish I'd had a hand free to get it on film."

Sherlock shivered in the cool water. He really felt quite unwell, he realized.

"I see," he said uncomfortably. What else had he said, in his delirium?

He sat in the bathtub, still wearing his soaked and freezing pajamas, staring up at John and Lestrade. They glared back down at him. Water dripped from his hair, down his neck and onto his back. He sneezed.

It was really so unbearably tedious when his transport rebelled against him.

*****

The morning light shining in the window eventually roused him. Reluctantly, he opened an eye and, remembering the events of the last couple of days, began a quick self-assessment.

Head: somewhat congested, but tolerable.  
Throat: no longer raw. Actually, enormously improved.

He gave an experimental cough. Ugh. Productive, but no more than to be expected.

His bones did not ache, which was a tremendous relief.

He rolled to one side, then sat up. Gravity seemed to be working the way it normally did.

Sherlock got up and pulled on a dressing gown over his pajamas, then made his way to the bathroom. He was shaky and tired when he made it back, and he scowled at his weakness. Maybe some tea would help. "John?" he rasped, then cleared his throat, coughed, and tried again. "John!"

He heard footsteps, then the door opened. John walked in, with a mug of tea and a couple of pieces of toast on a plate. "Thought I heard you getting up," he said. He set everything down by the bedside, then regarded Sherlock briefly. "How are you feeling this morning? You slept late; are you feeling any better?" Without waiting for an answer, he placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead. "Seems like your fever has broken, at least."

Sherlock just nodded, then reached for the tea.

"Have you run such high fevers before?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Not since I was a child," he admitted.

John considered that. "With delirium? Ever had febrile seizures?"

"Delirium, yes," Sherlock said. "Not seizures."

John's expression was difficult to read, and he remained silent for a moment. Sherlock took this opportunity to reach for the toast. He was unexpectedly hungry.

"Well," said John at last, "I guess next time we'll remember to take the paracetamol, yes?"

Sherlock chewed, then swallowed, then nodded. "Yes, John."

"I'd give a great deal to know, though," John continued, "what kind of fever dreams you were having." He smiled. "I mean, 'Barrel-rider'?"

Sherlock shrugged and kept eating.

John patted him on the shoulder. "Glad to see you're on the mend, at any rate." He turned and headed for the door.

It was then that Sherlock realized it. "John?" he asked.

"What?"

The voice...yes, that was it.

"John?" he tried again.

Slightly exasperated, John replied, "WHAT?"

Yes, that was definitely the same voice.

Sherlock smiled. "Nothing."


End file.
